I first met Gil Scott-Heron by sneaking backstage after a gig he played in Edinburgh in 1992. I was clutching a bootlegged Reggae Sunsplash festival album that featured a version of Gil's bass-heavy groove against nuclear power stations, "Shut 'Em Down". I can imagine it went down a treat in Jamaica [where the festival was held]. Gil also had a family connection with the island as his dad, a professional footballer, hailed from there, so it must have been one hell of a show.

Despite having never seen this particular album ("Where the fuck did you get that?" were his first words to me), Gil wasn't bothered by its existence. And I was less bothered about getting the record signed – it was really just an excuse to meet the musician and singer who had a voice like no other and whose performance earlier that evening had blown me away. I told him as much. He appreciated my sincerity and enthusiasm and it became the beginning of a long friendship.

Over the next two decades, I would have dozens of conversations with Gil. Sometimes in hotel rooms or in dressing rooms, often on the phone, once in jail, sometimes high and sometimes straight. Sometimes with lots of other people around but more often just the two of us. He was great to hang out with and I can't believe I'll never look into those wise old eyes and see that beautiful smile break out or hear his deep and mellow tones down the line. I wish I had recorded some of those conversations as I can only remember snippets: "Hey, Bingo, if it ain't broke, don't break it," is one. Or, after being disconnected: "We were disco'd." And his explanation of 9/11 on the morning of the tragedy: "It's just one big f'n boomerang." He always made me think.

I have a vivid memory of waiting for ages in the lobby of the infamous Chelsea hotel, feeling like Lou Reed, wondering if Gil would ever show. Eventually he did and we went up to his chaotic room, talked about his two novels that we were in the process of reissuing and chain-smoked cigarettes. Then Gil told me about the unconventional memoir he was working on. We walked down to a local shop where he had copies made of some of the chapters of The Last Holiday (published next January). One of them recounted the night John Lennon was murdered when Gil and Stevie Wonder were playing the Oakland Coliseum. Another told of his friendship with Stevie. Another of unexpectedly finding Bob Marley in his hotel room smoking weed. The first explained how he came to be born.

Gil often talked about the connections we have with those from the past. When he first met my daughter Marley (aged six weeks), he immediately remarked on what an old soul she was. He sang to her. He became her godfather and later became my son Leo's, too.

I miss Gil dearly. But I picture him smiling somewhere, far off and gazing and still.